


You Can Take It With You

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Disruption, Mac.  Dis. Ruption.  I told your predecessor that I wanted disruption to the media status quo at ACN.  So if you’re going to work out—if you don’t want your next promotion to be to the position of president emeritus—you need to get on board.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Friend of the Devil is a Friend of Mine

From the corner of her eye, Mac noticed Millie enter and deposit a sheaf of papers at the center of her desk. She tried to concentrate on the spreadsheet on the computer screen but became aware that Millie hadn’t left the office, still hovered in the periphery. Finally, Mac surrendered and wheeled around in her chair.

“Something else, Millie?”

“The mail—it’s on your desk.”

“Thank you.” Mac glanced down. “Anything interesting?” 

“Er—“

At this Mac looked up again. Millie looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m so sorry—I was just charging through and there had been the usual invitations, which I always open and put on Outlook—so I didn’t notice what it was until I’d already—“

Mac flipped through the short stack of papers and found it at the bottom.

Millie shook her head. “I’m sorry I opened it—I wish I hadn’t seen—but you know you can rely—“

“This?” Mac held the rectangular envelope of heavy paper. Sweeping cursive address in green ink. Familiar, because this was not the first. She withdrew the heavy stock notecard and scanned it.

Having paused momentarily to allow Mac to read, Millie now resumed. “I apologize again, and I’ll get Blue North for you—“

“That isn’t necessary—“ 

“Your friend Molly at the Bureau?“

“Again, no.”

“Someone needs to look into this, Mac,” resorting to the diminutive in her anxiety. “We need to find out who sent this and—“

“Thanks, Millie—thanks for your concern, and your advice, which I’m sure is good advice—but I’ll pass on consulting Blue North or anyone else just now.”

Millie looked dubious at the decision. “You know, Mr. Church would be here in a minute—he would want—“

Mac put up her hand. “No. No Blue North. No need to blow this out of all proportion.” She smiled gamely and dropped the envelope in the bottom desk drawer. “Let’s just keep this in the office for the time being. Okay?”

 

“Maggie’s on one,” Kendra said to Jim over the early show din.

He nodded to her, stabbed his index finger in Tess’s direction, and fit the phone receiver over the ear unencumbered by the headset.

“Maggie, we’re coming to you at the top of the next break. Recap us, then take Will’s questions.”

“Got it.”

“Hang on a minute.” He put a hand over the phone’s mouth piece. “Joey, can you get a hi-res image for me—“

“I can go only EGA on that card, Jim.”

Jim frowned. “Looks real fuzzy.”

“The best I can do.”

Jim took his hand away. “Sorry, Magg, one of those nights here.”

“We have them here, too,” she returned, with a smirk he could feel through the wire. “Plus, of course, there’s Jane.”

“That’s a cross to bear,” he commiserated.

“Sorry again about last weekend.”

“Yeah, right. Solo female ACN field producer on day cruise with 125 male submariners. You know, I really would have thought subs had lost some of their sexiness in a post-Cold War reality.”

“Nope. Subs are still plenty sexy. The Navy just needs more public puff to off-set post-Sequestration appropriation dollars. Unfortunately, Congress seems immune to the charm of nuclear-powered fast-attack submarines just now.”

“Well, I’m sure the Navy is glad you have its back. When’s the piece air?”

She made a snort. “Not for air. For the stream—“

“Pruit’s folly.”

“Hey, no need to diss us for reading the handwriting on the wall.”

Jim pulled the phone away from his head briefly and leaned down to Herb. “Still waiting for that D.C. video feed—“ Herb gestured to the far monitor. “There you are, lookin’ good, ” Jim breathed back into the phone.

On Monitor 3, Margaret Jordan adjusted her microphone and laughed at someone off-camera.

“Maggie, I need to go, but I wanted to say hi and make sure we’re still on—“

“Meeting your plane tomorrow night. Saturday afternoon at the Smithsonian, Saturday night drinks at Barmini and dinner at Rasika. Sunday morning’s still open.”

“We’ll figure out something.” He could hear Herb begin the return checklist. “Okay, I’m giving you back to Kendra. Hang loose.”

On Monitor 1, Will looked up as the camera came in.

“Today is the seventy-first day since Atlantis Cable News correspondent Andrew Murdoch was reported missing in Syria. Margaret Jordan of our Washington, D.C. bureau, has an update.” He turned his chair and the red light on Camera 2 went on. “Maggie?”

“Will, the American-based Committee to Protect Journalists today confirmed last week’s announcement by the Syrian government that three journalists, including ACN’s Drew Murdoch, are being held by the al-Nusra Front, a Free Syrian faction. Murdoch disappeared September second of this year while traveling in the Homs region of Syria. It had been widely speculated that he may have been taken captive by the al-Nusra Front, a radical arm of the Syrian insurgency and, worryingly, one with close ties to the burgeoning Islamic State movement. Murdoch, a Scottish national working for Atlantis Cable News in the region since 2011, formerly worked for British Sky News. CPJ is pursuing talks with leaders of the al-Nusra Front on a strictly humanitarian basis, as open negotiations for the release of hostages is, as you know, forbidden by U.S. policy.”

She paused, waiting for Will.

“Maggie, does the Department of State seem to have a sense of the goals of the al-Nusra Front in holding these journalists?”

“None that they have divulged to date, Will. Kidnappings of Westerners have usually revolved around ransoms or other concessions—prisoner exchanges, for example—but no demands have been made public in this case.”

“And the Murdoch family—“

“—is in Aberdeen, where they, too, are precluded by their government’s policy from any direct negotiations with terrorists or suspected terrorist cells.”

Will paused. “Then, given the intractability of the U.S. and U.K. governments on the subject of negotiating, you have to wonder why U.S. and U.K. nationals continue to be targeted.”

It was a give-away question and Maggie appreciated Will giving her the on-air coup-de-grace moment.  
“Will, without economic value or other leverage, these captives represent only propaganda potential to their captors. And in the case of Drew Murdoch and the others, it remains to be seen how their kidnappers will capitalize on that potential.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” Will looked up. “Margaret Jordan, ACN Washington correspondent. We’ll be right back.”

 

Jim collared Will after the show and it had taken Will nearly two full minutes to divine that Jim was really, surreptitiously, seeking a benediction for Maggie’s report. Amused at the realization, Will determined to make him work for it before finally bestowing it. 

“She could have made a better distinction between the Assad regime and the al-Nusra Front; not everyone in the audience can follow the Syrian factions as they morph. And she should have had a quote from State in her back pocket, just in case I asked her— _as I did_. But—overall, I suppose she did a fine job, again, on a difficult and hard-to-report subject. But—“ he wagged a finger, “make sure she follows up.”

By the time he extricated himself from Jim and changed into street clothes, it was pushing ten. Mac had been home for hours by now, since they had recently mutually agreed to abbreviate her normally brutal workday to a sane and baby-safe 10 to 5 routine. When he came through the door to the apartment, the room was dark.

“Mac?” Then, again, with alarm, “Mac?”

“I’m right here.”

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make her out, a dark shadow reclined on the couch.  
“Watch your eyes—I’m putting on a light.”

She lifted the arm from her face and, meeting his anxious look, offered a weary smile. “I’m okay. Just tired.”

He kissed her hair. “Did you eat anything?”

“Thought I’d wait for you.”

“Then, wait no longer.” He straightened and extended his hand. “I think we can rustle up a salad or something with minimal effort.”

“Mmm.” She followed him to the kitchen and placed ingredients on the counter as he passed them to her from the fridge.

“Did you watch the show?”

“Fell asleep,” she admitted. “Sorry.”

“Tough day?”

“Yeah. The news about Drew Murdoch. Reviewing budget projections for next quarter. Two—“ she held up fingers to emphasize it, “ _two_ harangues from Pruit. Then, I had to pull ACN Digital back from the brink of an expensive mistake.” She made a face. “Remember that boat with the hole in it that you talked about? You neglected to mention it was the _Titanic_.”

Laughing, Will looked up from chopping vegetables.

“Plus, your daughter has been kicking all day.” At this, his pleased expression coaxed her into a smile of forbearance. “But I did want to see the show tonight.”

“Maggie did well.”

“No surprise there. It’s a tough—“ She let her voice trail off, not trusting herself to continue. Although all the travails of the day had worn her down, it was the announcement about Murdoch that had hit closest and hardest, visceral because of her own experience with close-calls in the region. She couldn’t stop the unsettling shiver, as if there, but for the grace of god…

Moreover, Murdoch’s abduction had happened on her watch as president of the news. It was her responsibility now. She had argued to stop the practice of using freelancers in Syria months before he went missing, sensing not only their danger but ACN’s total inability to shield them in the event of trouble. Her position, in fact, had led to the first great row with Pruit, in which he blatantly cited a ratings boost should such a thing happen. 

_“Look at the residual ripple from Will’s incarceration. A sustained three points up, back at second place now. The goddam golden-haired child of cable news, exemplar of the profession—fucking New York Times editorial board would kill to have one of their—“_

_And that had been where she had cut Pruit off._

_“Will didn’t go to jail for the numbers, Lucas. He went—“_

_“Yeah, yeah, for the principle of the thing. Well, the principle of this business—and it is a business, Mc-Cubed, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not—is to be watched. You’ve got to get next to that viewer and make him care about you enough that he tunes in tomorrow night to see how you’re doing.” He gestured to the four over-sized computer screens crowding his desk and credenza. “We could reach a lot of people, we could change a lot of minds, you know, if you’d drop the Downton stiff-upper-lip crap and take the stick out of your ass.”_

_He shook his head in exasperation and obvious condescension._

_“Disruption, Mac. Dis. Ruption. I told your predecessor that I wanted disruption to the media status quo at ACN. So if you’re going to work out—if you don’t want your next promotion to be to the position of president emeritus—you need to get on board.” He sighed and inclined his head at the far screen. “I could have told Bezos that the drone thing wouldn’t work. Where were we? Oh yes, you were going to tell me why you eighty-sixed Digital’s offer of a bounty on crowd-sourced video.”_

_“Well, first, because it commodifies information that should be available to everyone—“_

_“Everyone, that is,with a high-def TV and cable or satellite service, right? That’s democracy.”_

_She ignored the jibe. “Second, because it incentivizes the creation of so-called newsworthy events, which will undoubtedly lead to phony news. We’d have to arbitrate the validity, in addition to the newsworthiness, of each story.”_

_He inspected his manicure. “You can’t possibly be suggesting you don’t already do that.”_

_“To a far different degree! And we start from the basis of trusted sources—“_

_“—And how did Genoa work out for you?”_

_That stung but she tried to ignore it. “Third, it would ring the dinner bell for every looney with a handheld. It would be YouTube for people with agendas--“_

_“So, in other words, we should stifle individual expression in favor of Group-Think?”_

_She took a long inhale and held it a moment before letting it go. Pruit was going to keep sniping and she eventually was going to have to concede the argument—not because she was wrong, but because it was obviously impossible to explain journalistic ethics to someone so willingly blind to them._

_“I feel as though I can speak plainly to you, Mc-Cubed, because we both know you weren’t really my choice. No animosity, no rancor, but you are just a workaround. You know that. But we’re going to run ACN my way, and you’re going to have to carry my water. Is that clear?”_

_Her face burned, less from Pruit’s overt attempt at humiliation than the recognition that she would have to capitulate. She simply could not wage war on every front. She had to pick her battles, as Charlie himself had no doubt determined during his brief weeks under Pruit’s reign. If okaying Bree’s next ludicrous project was the trade-off for protecting the newsroom from staffing cuts or intrusive editorializing, then she would swallow her pride._

Aware Will was now staring at her, waiting for the conclusion to her earlier thought, Mac reached for a bottle of water and twisted the cap. “It isn’t a story we want to be covering, Will. _We_ put him there.”

“Mac.” He waited until she finally met his eyes. “I get it. It’s close to home for you. For all of us, really. Well, except for Pruit. And everyone knows you’re the dam holding back his bullshit.” He sighed. “I know we agreed you’d work until two weeks before—but I don’t—“

“Will,” she remonstrated, “you promised you’d let me make the call—that as long as I was able—“

“Well, maybe I’m reconsidering,” he mumbled.

“This was just a bad day. Budget all morning, and you know how I am with numbers. Then Pruit in the afternoon. And the news about Drew—“

“It’s your third bad day this week, Kenz. Today’s only Thursday, though, so you still have the chance to make it four out of five.” He carried their plates to the table. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

A minute passed in silence before she finally spoke. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“God, you’re arrogant.”

He reached over and broke off some bread, offered her some. “My arrogance is surpassed only by my ability to be consistently right.”

Her mock indignation crumbled into a short laugh.

“And both are dwarfed by my love for my boss.” His eyes were twinkling now.

“Ah, well, that’s just job security.”

“Damn straight.”

 

Two hours later, they lay in bed together, light from a three-quarter moon splashed across the sheets. Her T shirt had ridden up, and Will moved the backs of his fingers over the swell of her belly.

“What’s on your mind?” she finally asked. “It’s pretty obvious you’re thinking something.”

He expelled an amused huff. “I’m wondering how I’m going to recognize her—I mean, if she’ll have your eyes or my hair—how the features between us will be blended together.”

“Well, I’m new at this, but I don’t think it works that way. There’s a theory—the Mendelian Inheritance. I think it’s more like the physical characteristics are just shuffled and dealt. Like a hand of whist.”

“Oh.” There was a lengthy pause while he considered this. “So, now I’m picturing those composite sketches of criminal suspects, only the artist will have two templates to draw from. You and me.”

“Still more complicated than that. All the McAvoys who came before you and all the McHales who came before me—they’re all in the mix, too.” She raised on one elbow and stared down at him. “You never took fifth form biology, or whatever it is called here? About gene theory and dominant and recessive characteristics?”

“Hmm. Can’t say I was ever much interested in theoretical biology.”

“Ah, yes.” She poked him. “Prefer the lab work, do you?”

“With one particular lab partner.” He nuzzled her neck. “But I know that she’s gonna get a look on her face when we tell her about curfew, or something, and I’m just wondering whether it’ll be that hand-on-hip, arch-of-the-eyebrow superior MacKenzie smirk or—“

She sighed in exasperation. “You’ll have her at university before she’s born. Give it a rest, love.”

“Okay.” He fit his jaw to the hollow of her clavicle.

“Goodnight, Billy.”

“Uh huh.”

 

Upon arriving at the office the following day, MacKenzie was informed that she (and Will) had been summoned to lunch with Leona Lansing in the executive dining room. No reason was proffered and it seemed a bolt-out-of-the-blue because contact with the Lansings had been next-to-nil since the sale of ACN. If she had taken the time to ponder it, Mac might have attributed the silence to disinterest, now that ACN was no longer part of the AWM empire, or chagrin, at the Solomon’s judgment that forced the divestiture in order to save company autonomy.

In any event, Mac’s morning was occupied with reviewing, for the umpteenth time, the PowerPoint presentation for the sponsors gathering in early December. She was so relieved to have been excused from attending it herself that she enthusiastically drafted the talking points and then coached Pruit’s new assistant Andrea Wells through a run-through. Lunch was not on Mac’s radar at all until Will swung through the office door to escort her to the 45th floor.

Leona breezed in minutes after them, an over-sized bag draped over one shoulder and the other hand clutching the ubiquitous smart phone, thumb-scrolling the dozen messages that had accumulated during the walk from the elevator. Will got to his feet to embrace her in greeting, but Leona shot a stern glance and rapid shake of the head at Mac struggling to rise. 

“Stay where you are, McMac.”

At her arrival, servers bustled over with menus and tall glasses of iced water.

“Well.” She put the phone away and threw back her regal head. “When does the kid get evicted from MacKenzie-subsidized housing?”

“Target date is January 17th.”

“No deduction for this year.”

“Yeah, my accountant already mentioned that.” Will winked. “But it puts a respectable year on the birth certificate. Makes it look less like a shotgun wedding.”

The server returned and they ordered.

Leona turned to Mac.

“You know, I’ve been wondering why no one ever came around to visit. We’re in the same building, for god’s sake. Thought I might run into you on the elevator or at the Pepsi machine.”

Mac waited to see where this ridiculous conversation thread would lead. Leona had a private express elevator and didn’t seem an habitué of vending machines, so it was never likely that the twain would simply bump into each other one day.

Suddenly, Leona softened and adopted a guilty mien. “You should know that Reese is of the opinion that I threw you to the lions. Well, one lion, anyway. I thought—“ she paused, “At first, I thought I was taking advantage of a chink in Lucas’ armor. That if I was out and Charlie was gone, that you at least still could—preserve something that we all valued. But later, I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t done you any favors, if the pressure would be too—“ 

“There have been some challenges—“ Mac trusted Leona would put the correct spin on her deliberately ambiguous phrasing. “We’ve had to make a few compromises…”

Leona snorted. “Yeah, I’ve heard Hirsch is narrating puppy cams now.”

“A few compromises,” Mac repeated, reaching for her water. “Nothing too big.”

“The Murdoch situation is big.”

Mac reached for the water and took several sips, grateful to have had the prop in her hand so she could delay long enough to frame a reasonable response. She knew both Leona and Will were gauging her reaction. 

“Andrew Murdoch has reported from the region for two years. He knew the people and knew the territory.” She replaced the glass and smoothed the wet ring on the tablecloth. “He knew the risks. There have been no threats and there’s no reason not to think a little well-applied U.S. diplomacy—perhaps the involvement of someone of high-profile, like Jimmy Carter, in negotiations—“ She stopped talking. 

This was insane. She was preaching to the converted.

Leona gave a derisive bark. “It wasn’t like this couldn’t have been predicted—no, not by you, McMac, that wasn’t meant as an indictment for failing to shield the whole profession. What I meant was that no network has a foreign bureau anymore. Haven’t since the CBS purges of the 1980s. We have to rely on freelancers and journalistic soldiers-of-fortune. And, yes, I know of your experience for Turner’s tribe, but that just makes my point. You, David Bloom, Bob Woodruff—it’s gotten impossible to send journalists into dangerous places. Why? Because losing Ernie Pyle in 1945 wasn’t the same loss as losing someone whose face and voice come into our living rooms every night. Not as personal. It may sound cold-blooded, but we can’t insure for those kinds of losses anymore. Not just literal insurance, but the risk of losing goodwill, the relationship with the audience. Plus, of course,” she added sourly, “our enemies have figured out how to better exploit us.”

The older woman pushed back in her chair. “So what else is new at ACN? Is Pruit planning to take the Atlantis out of ACN yet? And I hear you’ve suffered a few defections, that the ranks have thinned in the newsroom.”

“Not because of Lucas’ changes. Not really. Elliot’s just on temporary assignment to the digital side of the house, he’ll be back on Right Now in a few weeks. Don Keefer is working on some independent productions in the meantime.” 

“What about the kid who summered in Venezuela?” 

“Neal—well, he returned a bit disillusioned with journalism. Decided to choose technology.”

What went unsaid was that Neal knew he would be unable to partner with Bree or any of the other cohorts of Pruit’s ACN Digital. He wasn’t averse to technology as a media tool; he just abhorred the petty and mean-spirited uses to which it was being put, and knew he would spend his own days at ACN policing unbridled idiocy.

“I know he’s grateful to Reese for offering him a place at AWM.”

“Sloan Sabbith?”

At this name, Mac looked nailed, so Will spoke up.

“Sloan finally got the offer she couldn’t refuse. We see her all the time socially, so it isn’t like—“

“Not like the showdown with Pruit had anything to do with it?” Leona looked unconvinced.

Of course, it had had everything to do with it. They all knew that there had been few options for Sloan at Pruit’s ACN after she had so brilliantly and publicly mutinied. So she sifted her choices and opted for the role of currency analyst at Morgan Stanley. Will hoped to gradually reintroduce her as a guest economics expert on News Night, position her for ultimate return to the network, but was well aware doing so would be a long-haul and a hard-sell with the front office.

Their food arrived and Leona asked for a martini, which arrived with the preternatural promptness of a staff well-accustomed to her preferences.

“And how is Reese?” 

“Learning to make jet aircraft engines in Cincinnati.” She rolled her eyes. “Not glamorous but profitable and predictable. He misses Manhattan. Radio City. A decent bagel. ACN. Not necessarily in that order.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Leona dug in her gigantic leather bag and withdrew an envelope, sliding it across the table towards Will.

“Nathan Lane.”

“An address or a person?”

Leona looked annoyed. “What, are we playing _Password_ now? Person. Actor. Broadway-type. He’s committed to a revival of Terrence McNally’s _It’s Only a Play_. All-star cast, at the Schoenfeld.” When they didn’t react, she added, “My house. One of only two in the district not owned by the Schuberts or Nederlanders. Little jewel of a theatre we scooped up in the 1970s when the Helen Hayes was being bull-dozed for that monster Marriott and the New Amsterdam was rotting over on 42nd. Thought you could use a matinee this weekend.”

Will fanned the tickets in the envelope. “Thanks, Leona. It will be nice to get out.”

“Did I ever tell you the story about National Theatricals? How we had to raise forty-two thousand three hundred-fifty dollars and—” Some realization crossed her face and she closed her eyes. “Four—forty—two.” She gave a long exhale and pursed her lips. “God, I’ve been a fool. Not the value it has, but the value we place upon it.”

“Leona?”

Assurance and purpose returned to her expression and the smart phone re-materialized in her grip.  
“Kids, I have to go. It was good to see you. Mac—keep doing what you do. Will—“ she jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t let her do too much. And I’d damned well better hear from you both before the kid’s birthday.”

In the wake of her departure, Will and Mac shared a long look and a confused laugh.

 

Hours later, Millie’s buzz interrupted Mac’s review of the weekly Rentrak book to announce that Dr. Stone’s office had called with a new appointment date and time, and that Sloan Sabbith was waiting to see her.

Mac instructed her to add the new appointment to Outlook (doctor’s appointments at this stage made everything else on the calendar subservient) and to send in her friend. She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, feeling the strain of checking columns and rows for hours, then rose to meet her company. “This is a nice surprise.”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood. Meeting Don. And I just wanted to—can I sit?” 

Sloan perched on the edge of a chair across from the desk and ran her eyes quickly around the room. Charlie’s personal memorabilia had finally been packed and shipped to Connecticut, but Mac evidently hadn’t chosen to furnish what was now her office with many of her own personal items. Two document boxes with lids intact sat on the floor and a dozen books were stacked flat on the bookshelves, evidently in the same sloppy posture as when they had been carried into the room.

“Aren’t you settled in yet?” Sloan began, deliberately understating the problem.

“Millie’s offered to help. Perhaps I should let her.”

“I think you should.”

Mac rubbed at her eyes again.

“Tired? Is this pregnancy thing getting to you, finally?”

“I’ve been looking at the Rentrak viewer demo break-down. The numbers were beginning to blur a bit so I’m glad you stopped by. I could use the break.”

“Don’t you have someone to do that for you?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Marketing gets their own copy. I just like to see for myself what it says.”

“You mean, whether Will’s Q score is up or down.”

“Exactly.”

Sloan began nervously. “I wanted to mention something. I didn’t know how to do this on the phone or email, and it may not even be necessary, like maybe you’re already aware. Plus, of course, you’re married to an attorney, so maybe the both of you have figured this out and talked it over. But—I wanted to remind you that because of the news about Andrew Murdoch, every transaction on your accounts, your personal accounts, will probably be scrutinized—“

“Scrutinized? By whom? What accounts are you talking about?”

“Banks. Brokerage. Whatever financial institutions you do business with. They’re obligated to monitor and report certain transactions to the government.”

“Why would the government—oh.” The light went on.

“Yeah. Will has a track record with paying ransoms to foreign entities. Somebody surely knows it. So, I don’t want to insult anyone’s intelligence, or anyone’s J.D., but you should just assume that your accounts will be watched. They will want to make sure that what happened with Amen two years ago doesn’t repeat on Murdoch’s behalf.”

“That was a little different. Amen wasn’t being held by a suspected terrorist organization—“

“It wasn’t recognized as such at the time, and Will acted so quickly that there was really no time for reaction. But it would have a very different ending today, you know. ”

Very different.

“Do you know him? Murdoch, I mean.”

“Not personally. I’m sure we have some mutual acquaintances. But he’s one of us.” Mac shook her head. “This is all conjecture. There have been no demands made in Drew’s case.”

“Not yet,” Sloan amended, unwilling to concede what judgment and experience told her would be the logical development of the situation. “Anyway, just wanted to drop that on you, but you and Will have probably talked this over by now. No secrets between the marrieds, right?”

Mac’s eyes flicked to her bottom drawer then back up.

“Everything going well with the McAv-ette?” Sloan asked, over-brightly to compensate.

“This girl and I are on the glide slope already.” Mac gave an appreciative rub to her abdomen. “Daddy’s the one with the jitters. I would’ve thought Don kept you up to date with all the gossip.”

“Gossip, yes. But when I want facts, I try to mug the president of the news division.” 

“Yes, well, this is one president with extremely limited executive power.” She gave a half-laugh but an unmistakable tinge of bitterness crept into her tone. “Extremely. For example—you’ll probably appreciate this, but I’ve been directed to give Bree _carte blanche_ with ACN Digital—“

Sloan’s eyes rolled and she shook her head in commiseration.

“—which you will soon see manifested in our digital programming. Runway, a live feed of take offs and landings at Newark. Essentially just biding our time until there’s a crash or hijacking or other incident. The prevailing opinion is ‘it’s all going to be okay until one day it isn’t, then it will be spectacularly not okay.’ Another at the dog pound, where even the casual viewer can deduce the ending for these poor animals. You don’t have to actually witness the euthanasia—although Bree would go for that, if he could figure a way to package it pleasantly. He’s calling this one the digital public service model.”

“Oh my god.” Sloan clapped a hand over her mouth at the awfulness. “Just goes to prove you can’t trust a man named for a cheese.”


	2. Constant Bearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bree stomped out and Mac just sat, still dumbstruck by the whole exchange. This would doubtless be the topic (one of the topics, she amended) at the next row with Lucas Pruit, but she felt on firm ground. Even Pruit could be made to feel trepidation at tying the flagship program to such lunacy._

Rain ran thickly down the large front window of Compass Coffee on North 7th in D.C., where Jim and Maggie sat. A scattered formation of a half dozen demitasses rested between them, the debris of coffee flights preliminary to the main event.

“Figure out which one you want yet?” Jim asked, trying to catch the eye of the barista- _cum_ -server.

“Turkish roast,” Maggie returned distractedly, reaching for her smart phone. “Twitter’s crazy with the weather. Extensive squall line—supercells in the mid-west—four inch hail—“ She looked up. “Good thing you had already planned to take the train back to the city tomorrow. The weather-related flight delays are going to be incredible as this system pushes through.”

Jim sighed with the frustration of being unable to signal the barista and pushed himself to his feet. “Looks like we won’t be served unless I—“

“Wait one.” Maggie’s hand dropped on his sleeve. “This might be— _shit_ , I’ve had it on mute—wait, I’ve got to—“ She put the phone to her ear. “Whatcha got? When? Who’s available? Who else? No, get Terry instead. On my way.”

She met Jim’s expectant stare. “It’s raining like something out of _Genesis_ and no one’s where they should be. You know how desperate the situation is when _I’m_ the first person the intern can find on a cold, wet Sunday afternoon.”

He started digging bills out of his wallet to settle for the coffees. “What’s up?”

“Reuters is reporting there’s a video of Drew Murdoch. We’re going to break in with it.” She slipped her scarf on and reached for the still wet umbrella. “You’d better see if you can reach Mac and give her a heads up.”

 

At the Schoenfeld Theatre in the heart of Manhattan’s theatre district, the revival of Terrance McNally’s _It’s Only a Play_ was by-the-numbers funny. The performances, seemingly effortless, were top-notch from a superb cast, presided over by Nathan Lane. 

Whereas Mac obediently had turned off her phone completely in deference to the announcement before the show began, Will merely muted his. Later, she appeared to be enjoying the show so much that Will chose to wait until the show’s end to relay to her the text from Jim he’d found at intermission. The text that advised of a video posted, purportedly of one of the three journalists held by the al-Nusra Front. 

In the car, Mac tugged off a glove and searched on her phone.

“I’ve got it,” Will announced, moving his phone’s screen where they could both see it.

In front of the ACN Breaking News banner, Terry Smith leaned into the camera.

“This is Terry Smith in Washington. We are breaking into our normal broadcast to bring you news of westerners believed held in Syria by an anti-government faction. This morning, the following video was posted to an IRC channel frequented by known Jihadists and Syrian insurgents.” He paused as the grainy, shaky film showed an unshaven man, blindfolded, head bowed.

Mac squinted at the screen.

“It isn’t him.” 

Smith’s voice over resumed, eerily underscoring what she had just declared. “Originally misidentified as Andrew Murdoch, a correspondent for this network, this image has now been confirmed to be that of Simon Maner, a New Zealander humanitarian worker who disappeared on July 13th and is presumed to be held with Murdoch and two other journalists, Saad Daoud and Ammar Akkad. The video itself is silent but has been tentatively dated as less than two weeks old by U.S. intelligence analysts. The text that accompanied the on line publication purports that Maner decries U.S.-led interference in Syrian self-determination and pleads for an end to arms backing. The U.S. Department of State called upon Maner’s captors to release him and others without conditions, calling their captivity ‘an affront to humanitarian efforts.’”

“Stalemate. As expected.” Will tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked to Mac with concern. “You okay?”

She slumped against the seat, visibly defeated, and nodded in the over-quick manner that he knew meant she was struggling to hold her composure. 

He spoke quickly to try to reassure her.

“I’m sure there are efforts being made—back channels. The publisher of _The Atlantic_ —what’s his name? Bradley?—he’s been working with international agencies and government sources, trying to locate and repatriate some of the journalists missing in Syria. Maybe he—“

“This needs more than just furtive meetings with go-betweens in Jordan or Lebanon—“

“He has both deep pockets and a deep personal commitment to this.”

“He still won’t risk jail for it.” She was a bit annoyed that Will seemed oblivious to that prospect. “Not everyone is as anxious as you are to irritate the government and wind up incarcerated. And, if it was only money, we could even—I don’t know—open a Go-Fund-Me account? But that isn’t possible, is it?” She levelled her eyes at his. “Sloan came to see me last week, you know. Wanted to remind me that your effort to free Amen a couple of years ago has guaranteed we’re under surveillance. So, we won’t be making any contributions to ransom demands. Also—and perhaps I don’t have to mention this,too—we should keep a lid on major transactions. No IT start-ups with Neal. _No restaurant partnerships with Nina_ —“ she paused to gauge his reaction to that one. “Not even anything from Tiffany’s until this is resolved—“

“No restaurant ventures unless they involve actually _eating_ ,” he returned lightly. “And particularly not with—“ He frowned and reached to pull her to him. “Kenz. You look so troubled.”

“—Although I can’t help but think that what we really need right now is a Spec Ops swoop-and-kill. Perhaps we could hire Xe or some other soldiers-of-fortune.” 

“Murdoch knew what he signed up for, Mac.”

“I know what I signed up for, too, and it wasn’t this. I’m just so—so angry— _he_ had no right to do this, to put all this on me, to think that it wouldn’t matter—“

“Murdoch?” That couldn’t be whom she meant. Why would she be angry with Murdoch? “Pruit?” Even the name was sour on his lips.

“Charlie.”

“Charlie? You’re angry with _Charlie Skinner_ —for what? _Dying_?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” She averted her eyes, uncomfortable with the new expression on Will’s face. “He left this mess. Pruit and the coronation of mediocrity. And our team, the one we put together, is attriting away. Neal. Sloan. Maggie. Elliot.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Even Reese, in a manner of speaking.” But of all the absences, none was more hurtful than that of Charlie himself. Mac couldn’t shake the sense that he would have somehow contrived to protect them, protect the integrity of ACN, as she was so obviously failing to do.

“MacKenzie,” he said patiently, not wanting this to spool into argument. 

“Let’s forget dinner out, if that’s okay. Please. Just get us home, Will. My head is pounding.” She put her forehead to the cool window and closed her eyes.

 

On Monday morning, Will called Sloan.

“Hey, bro’,” she answered cheerily on the second ring. “Haven’t heard from you in a—“

“Sloan. I need you to do me a favor.” Will knew he was entering a minefield where hurt feelings and indignation were the likely hazards, so he wanted his words to be clear and non-judgmental. This needed to be a precision strike.

“Sure, anything.”

“I need for you to keep your visits to Mac on a strictly personal basis.”

There was a sharp intake of air that indicated the trip-wire for indignation had been triggered. Then, slowly, “What are you saying, Will?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news about Drew Murdoch. Mac is taking it very much to heart—“

“She wouldn’t be Mac if she didn’t.” Flat statement.

“Yeah—and so she told me you stopped by last week—“

“I didn’t tell her anything that either of you probably wouldn’t have realized in short order—“

“That’s right, too. I’m not accusing you of bad advice, just asking that you bring that sort of thing to me first, instead of her.”

“You’re not the president of ACN.”

“Let’s say that I’m trying to screen problems for her.”

There was a five second pause on the line. “I think that is so totally unlike what she would want.”

“There’s a lot on her right now. Trying to get on the same page as Pruit. New owner, new philosophies, you know. Pregnancy. _Getting this old man through the pregnancy_.” He tried to manufacture a chuckle but it fell flat. He didn’t even want to go into what had happened when they had arrived home the previous evening, how Mac’s nervous anxiety had turned into nausea and then dry-heaves. No, the best thing he could do for Mac right now was buffer the incoming. “I’m worried that she may not have the reserves that she’s had in the past—and that she’ll have again, of course, once we get past the current obstacles. For the time being, I just want to shelter her from some of the day-to-day—“

Sloan made a harrumphing sound. “Going to run interference with Pruit and his stooges? Well, good luck with that. Okay, Will. I can’t imagine what else I would ever have to contribute, but if I come up with something vaguely work-related, I’ll pass it through you first.” Then, _sotto voce_ , “Even though we both know that isn’t what she would want.”

“Thanks, Sloan. Looking forward to seeing you at dinner on Thanksgiving.”

“Pie, McAvoy. I’m coming for the pie. Pumpkin or pecan. And, oh, by the way—“

“Yeah?”

“If you really want to pre-digest Mac’s day for her, you’d be better off cozying up to Maudie—“

“Millie?”

“Okay, yeah, Millie. Mac’s assistant. EAs always know where the bodies are buried. She can probably clue you in what insanity Pruit is planning next.”

 

As Will and Sloan conversed, the ostensible subject of their concern was herself sitting in a consulting room at her doctor’s office uptown.

When the doctor strode back into the room, she hastily put aside the cell phone and smiled.

“All clear?”

“Almost.” Doctor Stone shook open her glasses and put them on to check the chart. “How are you sleeping?”

“No problems. Have to get up for the loo once or twice a night, but when I sleep, it’s a sound one.”

“Do you wear glasses?”

“Sometimes for reading.” Mac was confused. 

“Have you noticed any changes in your vision?”

“No. Why?” The questions seemed odd, which put her on alert. “You’re concerned about something?”

“Probably nothing, but we need to watch your blood pressure. Your systolic registered 135 and that is a bit high for you. You’ve heard of gestational hypertension? It affects about 1 in 12 pregnancies and your age makes you a candidate.”

Mac rolled her eyes. It was hard to think of thirty-eight as elderly, by anyone’s measure, but the number of times her age came up as a potentially deleterious factor made her think that she should just capitulate now and apply for membership in AARP. 

Dr. Stone continued. “So, I want to check your BP twice weekly from now on. Kathy can set you up with a recurring appointment that has minimal impact to your schedule. Urinalysis, too.” She shrugged. “Sorry. I know you hate this. But we want to keep you healthy, keep you both healthy.” 

 

The Wednesday lunchtime crowd was swarming at Lenny’s Sandwich Shop in Rockerfeller Plaza. Sloan eyed Don’s Reuben sandwich with open lust before sighing and stabbing at a forkful of greens from her salad.

“So, what’s new in the world of high finance?” Don asked.

“You know. A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound.” She shrugged. “Except, of course, that there aren’t Deutsche marks any more. Or maybe there are and we just call them euros now.”

He laughed and pinched some sauerkraut that had fallen from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth. “Is that commentary on politics or currencies?”

“I intended it as a comment on anachronisms, so perhaps it’s a little of both.” She resumed her longing stare at the French fries on his plate. “When does Elliot come back?”

“Next Monday night and that segue had better not be implication that _Right Now_ is an anachronism.” He watched her shake her head vigorously. “It’ll be a short week, owing to the holiday, so we’ll ease back into things. Then, the following week, there are only two shows before both Elliot and Will have to go to that sponsor thing with Pruit.”

“Sponsor thing?”

“Yeah, the biennial grip-and-grin with corporate sponsors. Or, as I call it, _Meet your Masters_. Pruit trots out his stable of thoroughbreds—Will, Elliot, Tony Hart and Maria Whatshername—and everyone gets to recalibrate the going rate for a 20 second commercial spot, based on ratings and all. What with all the talk of de-bundling cable, it’s more important than ever. Reese and Charlie used to go.”

“Mac’s not going?”

“Evidently not. And I don’t know if that was her idea or Pruit’s. But she’s essentially written the presentation for him, so she’ll be there anyway, in a manner of speaking.” He watched her watching him with amusement. “You know, I’ll never finish all these fries. Why don’t you help yourself?”

Her eyes shot to the ceiling. “I really can’t.”

“Okay. As I was saying, I think Mac feels like she needs to keep an eye on things here. ACN Digital has been running roughshod over the newsroom and she has to mediate the turf wars.” He paused. “It’s funny, you know, but the level of fear and hostility presently at ACN probably mitigates any value in having saved it.”

“So you endorse selling off the parts?”

He pushed his plate away and wiped his hands on the napkin. “I just don’t know what’s been saved. News is on the ropes.”

“Jobs have been saved, for one thing. Any economist could tell you that. Let alone anyone who gets a paycheck. Are you gonna eat that?” Sloan deftly swapped plates. “The Lansings were under the gun. They had only ten days to raise $4 billion. Catch up.”

He looked puzzled. “I’m with you—“

“No. _Ketchup_.” She pointed to the bottle of Heinz and he passed it to her. “If they’d had more time, Pruit would have never gotten his shot at ACN.”

“I don’t—“

“AWM was never the sum of its parts. Reese got that but his sibs never did.” She caught the look of confusion on Don’s face. “The conventional wisdom behind divestments has always been what the twins advocated. Sell off components of the company. Make short term profits. That might even be in Mergers & Acquisitions 101 for all I know. But much of AWM’s capital wealth couldn’t be readily converted to cash.” She stopped, a French fry poised in her hand.

“You ever been to Cincinnati?”

He laughed, at both the non sequitur and the incongruence of the sultry currency analyst waving a fried potato at him and speaking to him of a mid-western city once known as Porkopolis.

“Wanna go?”

He had to keep laughing. This was too funny. 

“Well, I’m not doing much else, at the moment.”

 

“Say that again.” Mac slipped her glasses off, pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes.

“ _Peter’s Prognostications_. What we do is, once a week, at the end of _News Night_ , have this psychic make some predictions about what’s going to happen in the next week. Weather. Shootings. Whatever. Maybe even a bombing or something.” Bree Dorrit felt expansive under Mac’s attention and that made him voluble. “Actually, the more outlandish, the better, because we want the viewer to tune in the following week to see whether the predictions came true.”

“And this— _psychic_ —is somebody who—“

“It doesn’t matter,” he exulted. “If he’s right, they’ll tune in because they believe him and want to hear more—and if he’s wrong, they’ll tune in to see the _mea culpa_ —“

“On Will’s show?”

“It’s fail-safe in the short-term, ratings-wise. That’s the beauty of it. And it will be a sensation on social media—bring a lot of buzz to the show—“

She adjusted her position in her chair to something approximating greater comfort as her tenant poked various internal organs. “But it isn’t news.”

“Well, it isn’t news _yet_. But _news_ becomes _history_ in just moments, and we could still hype the heck out of—“

“No.”

“Well, I guess we could try it out on the Hirsch show first. If you want, I’ll talk to Keefer when he gets back—“

“That won’t be necessary, Bree. We won’t be having psychics—or tarot card readers—or anything else like that on ACN for the foreseeable future.”

Truculence returned to his expression. “I should tell you I’ve already bounced this off Lucas and he seemed—“

“I said _no_ , and _no_ it is.”

Bree stomped out and Mac just sat, still dumbstruck by the whole exchange. This would doubtless be the topic (one of the topics, she amended) at the next row with Lucas Pruit, but she felt on firm ground. Even Pruit could be made to feel trepidation at tying the flagship program to such lunacy.

No sooner than Bree had departed than Millie announced Pruit’s other protégé, Andrea Wells, was back with further questions about the presentation for the sponsors meeting. This time, the sticking point seemed to be the slide citing potential impacts resulting from Pruit’s moves to de-bundle ACN from other networks within the traditional basic cable television package. While moving ACN to a premier tier package would narrow the audience, in terms of sheer numbers, the demographic would arguably reflect a better educated, better monied segment of the viewing public. This was very attractive to advertisers of luxury products, which promised to translate into corresponding increased ad revenues. Exactly the kind of sponsor Pruit wished to cultivate. Understanding the importance of putting the most optimistic spin possible on the situation, Mac courted euphemism after euphemism to describe the same thing. Andrea, a nervous, petite blonde, diligently printed Mac’s phrasing and ideas onto her copy of the presentation, promising to make the changes and take them back to their boss for final approval.

Mac rose and stretched against her desk, trying to straighten her spine after hours of sitting.

“Can I interrupt?” Jim’s head showed around the door.

Finally, a welcome visitor.

“After my day, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Come in and talk to me.”

“Okay,” he grinned, “but I’m only here for frivolous reasons. If you have weighty business you need to conduct—“

“I am so weary of what passes for weighty business in this office that you wouldn’t believe it.” She shook her head with a sorrowful smile. “So, distract me. Amuse me.”

“Ahh. First, I have to relay that Millie left for the day. I think she got tired of waiting for the current Miss _Schweppes-Bitter-Lemon_ to finish. And, second, I found this on Millie’s desk—guess it was couriered over.” He handed the large manila envelope to her. “Thought it might be important and didn’t want to just leave it sitting out there.” 

“Thanks.” She glanced at it before sliding it to the side of her desk.

“Hmm. Amuse you.” He considered for a moment. “Remember that guy Westbrook from the EPA?”

That elicited genuine laughter. “Will’s face, during that interview—“

“Yeah, well, he called Maggie up recently. Wants another spot.”

“One apocalypse wasn’t enough?”

“He thinks he made ‘significant inroads’ with the interview on _News Night_. Suggests that if we’ll allow him to expound on the subject of polychlorinated biphenyls in the oceans, we can finally rouse the public to environmental action.”

“Too much.”

“Well, you have to appreciate the irony. A credentialed scientist shouts in the societal wilderness, but what the world really wants to hear about is Jodi Arias.”

“Or Paula Deen,” she added. “Enjoy yourself in D.C. last weekend?”

Slow grin. “Yeah.”

“She’s coming here this weekend?”

“We’re giving it a rest this weekend, but she’ll be here beginning Wednesday night. Balloon-glow in Central Park, parade, shopping, the whole thing.”

“You’re both very welcome for dinner with us on Thursday.”

“Yeah, Will invited me. I’ll have to talk to Maggie, but will let you know something soon.” He rubbed his palms on his pants. “Hey, if you’re done for the day, why don’t you come down for the show? We can screw with Will from Control.”

“Now _that_ sounds like fun. You go ahead, and I’ll close up a few things here and then be right down.”

When the door closed behind him, Mac picked up the envelope with the familiar sloping cursive in green ink. She hooked a finger under an edge and ripped along the fold, then upended the envelope. A single photograph fell out.

Will in a restaurant booth, in deep conversation with Nina Howard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : “Peter’s Prognostications” is a riff of “Sybil the Soothsayer,” contained in Paddy Chayefsky’s still jaw-droppingly prescient _Network_.


	3. Decreasing Range

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I want you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “I know we spoke about gestational hypertension last time. It’s not uncommon. But there’s another situation, one that can be slightly more serious for both you and the child.”_

Thanksgiving of 2012 had been spent on a beach. Sun glinting on the water. Heat shimmering on the white sand and the gentle growl of green surf against it. The aroma of bogus coconut in the sunscreen and the aroma of bona fide coconut in the rum drinks they sipped.

Will returned to the present. 

Thanksgiving of 2013 was being spent in their recently updated and restored Carnegie Hill apartment. A pre-war Classic Eight, with three bedrooms, wrap terrace, high ceilings, wide plank floors, and a large bank of windows. The restoration had only just been completed (the final punch-list not scheduled until later in December), so most of their guests had not seen the results of tedious months of renovation. 

There was universal approbation.

As a concession to having so many guests when Mac was in an advanced state of pregnancy, Will had hired a caterer to assist with the heavy lifting of meal prep and clean up. He recruited Gary Cooper as bartender (after it had been determined that Martin only knew how to make one drink, a Cosmopolitan, something his fraternity brothers had convinced him was a surefire method to attract the opposite sex at parties). Tamara, Kendra, and Herb each had their own family commitments, but Joey and Tess came unaccompanied.

Don and Sloan arrived early, intending to help, but when they discovered Will had it under control, she joined Mac on the sofa and Don worked to find the football game of choice in the bank of flat screens Will had somehow managed to incorporate into their new dining area.

Sloan took a glass of Chardonnay from Gary and, feeling a tad self-conscious in front of an abstainer, nodded at Mac’s orange juice cut with sparkling water. “How’s that? Like a Mimosa?”

“It is absolutely _nothing_ like a Mimosa, but it stops me from feeling totally deprived. Plus, it cuts the sugar content, which otherwise would be off the charts.” She sipped gamely despite the admission. “What was with the sudden trip last week?”

“Well, Don had the time, what with Right Now still on hiatus. And I had some time—“

Mac threw up a hand. “ _Cincinnati_ , Sloan.” In other words, _Quit deflecting and tell me what is really going on_.

“We thought we’d go see Reese Lansing. In my line of work, it helps to be conversant with manufacturing capabilities and industrial trends—“ Sloan was aware she had little traction but persisted. “Did you know that Benjamin Franklin refused to patent his inventions, like the stove and bifocals, because he considered them for the public good?”

“Evidently before the invention of the law degree,” Don interceded from across the room.

“Seriously?” MacKenzie eyed them both with open skepticism. “I may not know much about economics, but I’m not daft. Once more—what’s going on?” 

“We brought souvenirs,” Don crooned in a sing-songy voice.

Mac looked guarded. “Souvenirs?”

“This, for one.” He picked up the wrapped box, roughly the size of the photo frame, from the table where he’d placed it upon entering. “Actually, this one is for Will.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Don shoved the package at him. “From Reese.”

Will put down his Heineken and tore the wrapping. He lifted the lid of the box and pulled back tissue paper. He gave a gentle huff of recognition.

“What is it?”

“Yeah, he didn’t tell us—” Don leaned in.

Will held up what simply looked like a piece of flat white plastic. “This is a pick guard for a Fender Stratocaster.” He waited a beat before adding, “That’s a make of guitar. And it has a signature on it—hey, Peter Frampton. Guitar god. Wonder how in the hell Reese came by this?”

“Do you have that kind of guitar?” Tess had wandered over, put off by the unified fixation of Joey, Gary, and Martin on the televised football game.

He laughed. “I have Gibsons. But I’m thinking I’ll have to get a Fender now, just so I can display this.”

“Sorry, Mac,” Don apologized, glancing at his watch, “yours is coming along later. Be patient.”

“As patient as Job.”

Jim and Maggie arrived late, blaming it on the reduced number of subway trains running on the holiday and the post-parade crowds that effectively clogged the sidewalks. 

Several days before, Jim had finally confessed a private concern to Mac about the potential for unease in the Jim-Maggie-Don-Sloan quadrangle. He hadn’t wanted to introduce any awkwardness into their home during a holiday celebration. Mac, of course, had dismissed his worries out of hand and pleaded for Maggie and Jim to join them. The warmth of their reception by Sloan and Don seemed to reinforce Mac’s judgment.

Jim extended a slip of paper to Will. “I think I’ve found the one you’re looking for.”

Catching Maggie and Mac staring, Will explained, “I’ve heard music calms the savage beast, so I thought I should have a lullaby or two in my back pocket.” He looked at the paper then back to Jim. “Tom Petty?”

“I think it’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

Later, as Mac was making a watchful visit to the kitchen, she heard a sudden gush of happy voices. 

“Mac—come out here,” Will shouted over the din. “Your souvenir from Cincinnati just arrived.”

She rounded the corner and at the center of a crush was Neal Sampat, holding a bouquet and sporting a new silky moustache. Still unmistakably Neal.

Her face crumpled with delight and Neal, with a sheepish grin of pleased resignation, acquiesced to her hug.

“Is this a visit or are you—?”

“Just a visit for now. There’s some lawsuit pending with Atlantis Dynamics,” he explained, using the name of the AWM division involved with jet engine manufacture. “I’m supposed to give a deposition to that law firm, the same one involved with Operation Genoa—“

“Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday?” Will leaned in.

“That’s the one.” He pushed the flowers at Mac. “There wasn’t much time to talk last summer—I’m glad you—“

Mac’s eyes registered her absolute delight. “You can come back any time, you know. Save me from the internet trolls.”

“Bree and I are like chalk and cheese—“

“You don’t have to point out who is who in that analogy,” Don muttered.

“It’s better that I am where I am right now.”

“But we’re still permitted to miss you.”

“Of course.” He gently shook his head.

 

“Mac?” Will touched her shoulder, waking her from where she’d fallen asleep on the sofa as he’d seen the last of the guests (Martin and Gary, the former wobbly under the sway of too many Cosmos, and the latter _tsk_ -ing and muttering about the lethality of girly drinks) to the elevator. 

“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

He steered her to the right room, extinguishing lights as they went, finally allowing her to lean against him as she struggled to doff the clothes she’d worn for the party and pull on a T-shirt.

“I feel positively ponderous.”

“You look positively wonderful,” as he ran his palms over her upper arms and shoulders, gazing at her with a mixture of intensity and bemusement. He leaned in for a gentle kiss, then pressed her to him. “This is exactly what it is supposed to be. I love you.”

“Hmmm?”

“I said, I love you.”

“Make me an offer?”

“Raincheck? I think you’re exhausted.”

“I was counting on you to rouse me.”

“There’s lot of time. Four day weekend, Kenz.” 

 

As she had for several weeks now, Mac stopped by Dr. Stone’s office Wednesday on the way to work for a quick blood pressure measurement and urine sample. Today, however, once the BP cuff had been removed, she was told to wait.

“MacKenzie.” The doctor entered, obviously harried. “Sorry, I’m incredibly rushed today, but I wanted to see you.” She rubbed her palms together in a nervous gesture. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m becoming… concerned… about your blood pressure readings and the proteins in your samples. I have to ask you a few questions and I need you to be utterly candid with me.”

“What’s wrong?” Mac asked, immediately tensing.

“Have you had any episodes of vomiting or nausea recently?”

_The night of the last bulletin about the Syrian captives._

“I had an emotional reaction to a story we did—“

“Headaches?”

“One or two, but—“

“Last question. Any changes to your vision? Seeing spots, or flashing lights—blurring?”

“I sometimes have to review long columns of numbers—“

“MacKenzie.” The doctor held up a hand to silence the rationalizations. “This is serious now. You’ve just given me three reasons to be concerned on top of the blood pressure readings and urinalysis.”

“Something is going wrong—“

“I want you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “I know we spoke about gestational hypertension last time. It’s not uncommon. But there’s another situation, one that can be slightly more serious for both you and the child. Preeclampsia, or just PE.”

“You’re still taking the calcium supplement? Good. I want you to stay with that and add a low-dose aspirin daily. Try to take it easy—make sure you’re getting enough rest. PE isn’t behaviorally affected, so you don’t have to change your routine. Any questions?”

“Am I going to lose the baby?” The only question that occurred to her and the only one that mattered. How would she tell Will? Her mouth was dry and her hands icy with anxiety.

“Very unlikely. I don’t want you worrying about that.” The doctor sighed. “Let’s just say that PE poses complications we don’t want. There’s no need to be unduly frightened—“

Mac found herself wondering what might constitute _duly_ frightened.

“—We just want to take every precaution.”

Mac nodded slowly, already resolved to research the hell out of this as soon as she got back to the office.

“Oh, and don’t go scaring yourself by reading up on the subject on WebMD or one of those other goofy web sites,” the doctor added. “Make an appointment with Kathy for next Thursday and bring your husband with you. He needs to be a part of the decision-making process.”

“What decision needs to be made?” Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears.

“Not whatever you’re imagining right now. We may have to consider a Caesarian, that’s all. A change of venue, so to speak. But it is a surgical procedure and carries some of the risks of surgery, so we need to weigh all the options.”

 

When Mac finally reached the AWM tower, Millie relayed, as sympathetically as she could, an imperial summons to Pruit’s magisterial chambers two floors up. Millie exchanged a pad and an executive schedule of events for Mac’s briefcase and sent her up without her even entering her own office.

“Good, you’re here.” Pruit consulted the wall clock with calculated theatricality.

“I had a doctor’s appointment.”

He nodded, obviously unwilling to follow up with any pleasantry about babies or her health in general. “I wanted to talk to you before I have to leave for the Upfront. I’ve been thinking we should do some promos on the Murdoch situation—sort of like how Ted Koppel and _Nightline_ kept the whole Iranian hostage scenario in the public eye in the 1980s. Open each night with—“ He stopped. “You’re wincing—“

“You don’t think it wouldn’t appear somewhat self-aggrandizing to do that, considering that he’s a correspondent for ACN?”

“I think it’s fucking _news_ , Mc-Cubed,” disdain plain in his voice. “I’ve heard a rumor that the Department of State asked Murdoch’s next of kin to provide DNA swabs. That means there’s a possibility there either is or might be a body that needs identification.”

“It could be preemptive,” she protested through her repulsion at this new bit of information.

He shrugged. “It’s still news. That _is_ what you do around here, isn’t it?”

“Will simply won’t—“

“Will is product. He’s part of what we sell.” He looked briefly at the single sheet of paper on his otherwise empty desk. “You killed Bree’s idea about the psychic. Yeah, well, you’ll be surprised to hear that I think that may have been the right call. I think I’d rather send it over to entertainment instead of the news division. Better package—might even be able to bring in Simon Cowell or Melissa Rivers for development.” He looked up and his expression darkened. “But I want you to stay out of Digital’s way. You’re taking much upon yourself—particularly in your current, um, _state_. Be careful it isn’t too much.”

“Is that all?”

“Not yet. I want you to get a counter in the top right corner of the screen for all three shows, _News Night_ , _Capitol Report_ , and _Right Here_. Stop wringing your hands over this guy who got himself snatched by the bad guys. He’s there and we’re here and this is what we do.”

“We eat our own?”

Pruit tapped his forefinger to his temple. “That’s good, Mc-Cubed. Real good. But you’re living with wishful thinking and not real news collection. I am not going to sit here and let CNN or ABC eat our lunch on this Murdoch story. You want to be fucking Charlie Skinner, then I’ll tell you again: the status quo around here is _dee-you-el-el_ , and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think.”

 

The 2013 Upfront presentation, at which cable television networks would announce new programming and court sponsors, was being held in early December, itself a concession to how greatly cable broadcasters had managed to alter the landscape of television “seasons.” ACN, now under the banner of Pruit’s Intuitive Media, Corp., and other cable networks would converge at Radio City Music Hall to shower corporate sponsors with live musical extravaganzas, comedic offerings from the usual line-up at Comedy Central, and the opportunity to meet-and-greet familiar media personalities as new shows would be touted and familiar ones given the equivalent of a royal audience. 

So, on the Wednesday morning following Thanksgiving, as MacKenzie sat in her doctor’s office, Will McAvoy and Elliot Hirsch shared a limo to the affair. Will plucked at his tie, tugged at the confines of his collar, grumpy with discomfort. He was unused to wearing a suit so early in the day.

“I thought the morning crew was coming to this event, too.”

“Tony and Maria are on air now,” Elliot answered without even looking up from his phone. “They’re coming later.”

“This is my sixth Upfront and they always remind me of a never-ending cocktail party where the cocktails can’t possibly compensate for the people you have to talk to at the party.” He moved his eyes back inside the limo. “Hey, we caught your show last night. Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

“But what was all that stuff about the FCC?”

“Don’s idea. The Federal Communications Commission took a lot of crap for the way it handled the digital TV roll-out a few years ago. Giving away public spectrum without auction. Outright awarding of parts of the spectrum to the cable companies. Recently, the FCC announced it would scrutinize how broadcasters compress and transmit data. Packetized transport streams, I think they call it. Essentially, streaming technology. And since the FCC has never been especially accountable to the public, Don thinks that some light needs shining on the subject.”

“And won’t that make Pruit uncomfortable, what with the potential for a conflict of interest? Not to mention the Upfront happening this week?”

Elliot frowned and considered. “No one’s told us to stop. Mac would’ve—“

“Mac would tell you to go with throttle up. God only knows what Pruit will say.”

 

Pruit’s assistant, Andrea Wells, met Will and Elliot and directed them to an alcove separated from the stage by a heavy curtain. She pointed out several trays of cold breakfast hors d’oeuvres, chilled bottles of water and juice, and a coffee canteen. There was a steady hum of voices from the other side of the curtain, where the dais was located.

While Elliot checked his phone for messages once more, Will filled a cup with coffee and moved away from the table.

“—what was I saying before?”

“But aren’t you constrained by, _ahem_ , ethics?”

Voices bled through the curtain, words becoming distinguishable. One voice seemed familiar. Laughter. 

“Ethics. We’re up to our fucking armpits in ethics right now. But give it a few more weeks and I promise you a more congenial atmosphere for the changes I have in mind.”

The reply was inaudible.

The first voice spoke again and Will suddenly placed it. He saw recognition in Elliot’s eyes as well.

_Pruit_.

“She’s not working out. I’ll be able to ease her out the door in a month or two—I’m working on a couple of fronts, you know… Yeah, he’ll stay. Pussy-whipped but not totally stupid…”

Elliot caught Will and dragged him back a dozen feet, his arm restraining him but not without considerable effort.

“Wait— _wait_ , Will, listen to me,” he whispered urgently. “You’ll make things worse if you fly out there right now. For one thing, you’ll _lose_. Pruit will make sure of it, he has to, if there’s an audience. Second, _think_. You won’t be doing Mac any favors. She’s such a great president of the news division that she needs her husband to defend her from impolite words?” Elliot began to relax the pressure that pinned Will to the cinderblock wall. “Forewarned is forearmed, you get my drift? We know what we’re up against now—I guess in a way we always did, but now you’re seeing what she has to contend with. She hasn’t been telling you about any of the daily conflicts, I’ll bet?”

Will slowly shook his head. 

“I’m not wise, Will—I’m not Charlie or anything. But I think Charlie would have you watch and wait right now. Don’t rob her of agency in this. She’s capable of fighting her own battles. And you’ll get the satisfaction of kicking the sonofabitch as soon as she’s got him on the mat.”

 

Unaware of the disturbance on the other side of the divide, Lucas Pruit spotted another corporate sponsor with whom he wanted to schmooze and moved towards the dais, smug satisfaction on his face. Suddenly, his expression curdled. Leona Lansing was traveling an intercept course and he had no alternative but to meet her.

“Leona. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Atlantis World Media still includes _media_ , Lucas. We have other broadcast and publishing outlets.”

“Ah, yes. The old movie channel. The old TV show channel. The _other_ old TV show channel. I must congratulate you on the demographic niche you’ve carved out.”

She managed a thin smile in return. “You’re taking care of my news organization?”

“Well, we’re still trying to crack the under-age-70 market. Oh, and you might want to check that possessive.”

Her eyes swept the crowded auditorium before they returned to him. “Are you chasing cash or chasing audiences?”

“They’re the same thing.” It was his turn to smart at the retort. “I’m not afraid of you, Leona.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention.” She shifted her gaze in a gesture of condescension. “See you ‘round, Lucas.”

 

MacKenzie was reading in bed when Will got home that night.

She slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose. “Long day.”

“Yeah. Not an especially good one, either.” He kicked off his shoes and went into the bathroom.

“Good show,” she called out.

There were several missed beats until he stuck his head around the door, toothbrush in his mouth, and gave an exaggerated nod.

“How was the Upfront?”

He came out, towel around his neck. “Same as always, except that Pruit is a real piece of work.”

She barely stifled a chuckle.

“Honestly, Mac, how do you put up with it? That smarmy, devious, arrogant little shit.”

“You have the list of affinities right.” She patted the bed. “Come here. What on earth did he do to you today?”

Will pulled on a clean T-shirt and crawled beside her. “I just can’t figure out how you manage to work with the little bastard.”

“In my experience, bastards come with the territory.” She paused, desperately wanting a change of tone before she proceeded. “Will, I want you to go with me to my appointment with Dr. Stone next week.”

“Sure.” He yawned and snuggled closer. “Another ultrasound?”

She allowed a long pause, during which his breathing began to even and deepen.

“Of course, Will.”

 

Every Friday at 11:00, Pruit deigned an “hour of power” conference with the president of the news division. Rarely was it more than a one-way communication, but at least it was a face-to-face encounter, and Mac prepared rigorously for it. Studied the Nielsen and Rentrak books. Reviewed the AQH (Average Quarter Hours, measuring audiences by the quarter hour) snapshots. Focused on content-to-revenue equations and, particularly, familiarized herself with the current Q factor of each personality in the ACN stable.

But, in the end, for all any of it actually helped her, Mac would have been better off to have followed her predecessor’s preparatory technique: three fingers of bourbon, neat.

Knowing Mac would be in Pruit’s office for the weekly summit, Millie had decided to finally start unpacking Mac’s boxes for her. She straightened the books on the shelves, turning their spines outward and deliberating how best to arrange them, whether to group them by subject or alphabetically by title. A dozen books into the process, however,she changed her mind and began to arrange them alphabetically by author. It simply occurred to her that Mac probably didn’t consult the books, that they likely were gifts from the individuals who had written them. 

Millie particularly wanted to dig out and display the Peabodys and the 2009 RFK Journalism Award. She knew Mac would characteristically eschew anything that smacked of trying to impress office visitors with her awards—Mac felt she neither needed nor wanted the extra validation afforded by visible awards. But Mac was young, and Mac was a woman, and sometimes, Millie firmly believed, it didn’t hurt to hit people over the head with your qualifications. Particularly when they might be inclined to dismiss you otherwise. 

It was really a shame Lucas Pruit couldn’t be expected to come to Mac’s office and see her credentials, realize what an asset had fallen into his grasp.

So, when Will sought out Millie for a long-postponed talk, he found her shelving books.

“She’s at the—“

“Yeah. I know. The weekly meeting with Pruit.” Will also was well aware of Mac’s customary Friday morning engagement, since it was invariably preceded by a Thursday night session of chasing papers and colored highlighters across the dining table. “Actually, you’re the one I wanted to speak with, Millie.”

This was odd. 

“What about?” She tried to sound nonchalant. Millie Hanover was too established in her position to be overly-awed by the anchor, but she was wary of what sort of conversation she could reasonably expect with Will McAvoy. Their only common denominator was MacKenzie McHale, and Millie knew, acutely, that the fact that Will McAvoy was now married to Mac in no way diluted her obligation to her boss.

“I need to know if there’s anything unusual—anything out of the ordinary that may be going on with Mac. She’s taking quite a strain and I just want to get a feel for anything that might be causing her—“

“She doesn’t know you’re here?”

“Well—no. I just want to know so I can, you know, shield—“

“I’m sorry, Mr. McAvoy, you’re putting me in a difficult position. I really can’t—“

“Sure, you can. I’m her husband.”

“In this office, that doesn’t matter.”

He looked taken aback but stepped nearer to remonstrate.

“Will.”

Both turned to see MacKenzie at the office door, watching the confrontation with puzzlement and dismay. “What is this about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : The titles for chapters 2 and 3, “Constant Bearing” and “Decreasing Range,” are maritime terminology for a collision course.


	4. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two steps outside Will’s office, Mac began to sink. Will rushed to support her. Thinking of her fragility and their child in utero, he moved his hand over her face. “Don’t you go anywhere, Kenz. Stay right here with me.” He cast a panicked look to Sloan, who remembered the collapse of another news president barely six months prior._

“I should go,” Millie dropped the books she held on the edge of the desk with a louder than intended thwack.

“No. Stay.” Mac motioned back to the room. Then, her eyes traveled back to Will.

“What’s happening, Will?”

He licked his lips, unprepared for this confrontation with this audience.

“There’s been so much going on—so much weighing you down—and I know Pruit is being a real dick. I just wanted to ask Millie—so I could know what you’re dealing with, figure out how I can absorb some of the shocks for you—“ He struggled to phrase this so she would accept it. “Mac, I respect the work boundaries, I really do, but there are times when things transcend—“

She put up a hand, quelling his anxious ramble.

“I come back from a meeting with Lucas and find my husband in my office, pumping my assistant for information—“

“I want to help!” he blurted. “I know what you’re up against and I won’t let you do this by yourself.”

“You won’t?”

She strode to her desk and opened a drawer. “You’re right. I ought to be able to rely on your help.” There was a protracted pause while she bent to her bottom desk drawer and placed a handful of envelopes on the desktop. “Here’s a problem you can help me resolve.”

Millie was vibrating with discomfort now, shifting her weight and giving Mac a desperate look.

Will picked up an envelope, withdrew the card and read. He looked up wordlessly, then reached for another. Did the same. Finally, swallowing, “Mac—how long has this—why haven’t you—“He cast an anxious glance at Millie.

“She knows. She opened one by mistake.”

Well. That went a long way to explaining Millie’s earlier recalcitrance. Not to mention the strange asides from Mac recently.

“Here.” Mac extended the most recent envelope and, after he’d taken it from her, leaned against the top of the desk. “This is the best one. It arrived less than two weeks ago. Tell me what you think.”

_Shit._

A photo of him with Nina Howard. 

_But, wait—_

Now he was truly flummoxed. “I—I—this isn’t--you can’t believe—“

“I don’t.” She eased into the chair. “I’m not playing jealous wife, Will, though somebody surely intended that I should. I don’t believe you’re having trysts with Nina Howard. I’m not angry—well, not with you. Someone has been putting on a show at your expense for my detriment.” She gestured to the small stack of envelopes.

“These— _communiques_ —have been trickling in at the rate of one every two weeks. Haven’t they?” She looked to Millie, who nodded on cue. “It occurred to me immediately that if they were intended as extortion, the notes would have gone to you, not me. The only value in sending them to me is as _psy-ops_. Trying to mess with my head. And, then—“ she crossed her arms, “I had to ask myself, who benefits from that?

“Now, I don’t think Nina is above torture for the pleasure of it. She would pull the wings off a fly if it suited her. But Nina is a smart girl and there really isn’t a pay-off in this for her. I think she would want a pay-off…”

“My god, Mac, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to see where it was going.” She sighed and made a gesture of dismissal. “Besides, there was no way to bring it up without it sounding accusatory. I knew it wouldn’t be a thing unless I made it a thing.”

Millie cleared her throat. “I’ll just take this—“ she reached out to seize a book, any book, “outside.”

“Wait—one more thing, Millie. You both need to hear this.” She held out her hand to Will. “He is my best friend and most trusted partner. Even in this office.”

Millie smiled, ducked her head in acknowledgement, and bolted for the door.

“You heard that part, too?”

“Afraid so. Now, shall we carry on with the forensics?”

“Nina.”

An exhumation not at the top of her list.

“She did call me a few weeks ago. Called. I was having lunch with Pruit and his sidekick and didn’t want to talk to her then, but I called her back later. I never met her anywhere, and I have no idea where this picture came from. She wanted to tell me that a third party was snooping around, asking a lot of questions about your time as an embed.”

“Mining for adverse information, I’m sure.” Her lips formed a grim smile. Nina was still a tender subject. “Just please tell me you didn’t give her any money.”

“Of course, I didn’t. She never asked for it. Although if she had—if I could be _sure_ it would help bury whatever it is that someone is trying to dig up—well, financial surveillance be damned. But she just wanted us to know people were inquiring, wanted us to be on our guard.”

At this Mac, snorted and picked up the photograph.

“It was a phone call, Mac. I can’t explain that photograph—maybe it’s an old one, put to new purposes.” He sought to soften the impact of it. “I can’t for the life of me remember—well, anyway, it’s hardly _in flagrante delicto_.”

“It looks decidedly _in flagrante_ to me.”

“She was trying to help. By calling. She didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes. Well. Don’t expect me to name our child after her.” She slid the picture across to him. “This has been Photo-shopped, and amateurishly at that. I’m surprised you didn’t notice you have only three fingers in that picture.”

He blinked and bent nearer to scrutinize it.

The phone buzzed and Mac tapped the button. “Please take a message, Millie, I’ll be a few more minutes.”

“It’s Andrea Wells. I told her you were in conference but she insisted that I interrupt. She said it pertains to the FCC hearings and data compression.”

“Tell her I’ll be there when I get there.”

Will hoisted his eyebrows in mild surprise. Mac wasn’t normally brusque to co-workers.

She gave a slight shrug. “I’ve found you don’t get treated like the president of the news division until you act like the president of the news division. One of those kernels of wisdom I’m sure Charlie would have passed along if there had been time. Where were we?”

“We were just getting to who might be responsible for this,” indicating the photograph. Then, taking his cue from her expression, he added, “You’ve figured this out, haven’t you?”

A slow blink and wordless nod.

“Pruit?” Will ground out the name, already pre-disposed to take this situation into his own hands.

She opened her mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Let me take care of this, Will.” There would be plenty of time to deal with petty workplace bullying tactics. 

 

By the time Mac finally made it to Andrea’s office, which was surprisingly large and well-appointed for the latter’s relative junior position, the urgency had dissipated somewhat. Andrea wanted Mac to help her craft an arresting description of ACN Digital’s data compression technology; unsurprisingly, Bree had proven an inarticulate boor when it came to communication with _actual_ people, and Lucas was anxious to put the correct amount of spin on de-bundling during the FCC hearings. Mac abandoned any attempt to wordsmith what Andrea had already prepared (with Bree’s input) and instead dictated relevant phrases and a killer summation. With detachment and slight annoyance, Mac watched Andrea struggle to jot it all down.

Later, Mac watched _News Night_ from Control. Jim handled the broadcast with aplomb, and she still felt great pride in the show, even though she herself was rarely involved in the day-to-day anymore. She resented the Day 93 graphic inserted into the upper right corner of the screen, denoting the number of days since Andrew Murdoch had gone missing. That was Lucas Pruit’s contribution to the broadcast, and she felt it trivialized _News Night_ and reduced Murdoch’s life to an inane abacas. She had been a little disappointed that Will hadn’t protested inclusion of the counter, because he might have the clout to change Pruit’s mind, but forced herself to remember that, even now, the two McAvoys often approached the news from differing perspectives. Mac understood collection of the news; Will understood the presentation. Perhaps Will’s acquiescence to the counter was really the right attitude, keeping Drew front-and-center before the public.

She tried to imagine what Charlie’s view would have been.

“And—we’re out,” Herb said, a moment before the closing theme began.

“Good show, everyone.”

Jim slipped his headset off and managed a shy smile back at Mac. Praise from her was invariably hard-earned and always well worth it.

She pushed through the frosted glass door and into the studio, where Will had removed his earpiece from his ear and was attempting to pull the cord through his suit jacket.

“Here. Let me help.”

“Looking awfully good tonight, Madame President,” he murmured as she leaned near. “Got plans?”

She ran a hand to smooth his jacket, then took both his hands and placed them on either side of her swollen abdomen.

“Keep in mind there’s a good chance that whatever you suggest may be anti-climactic at this point.”

 

The next week began auspiciously when Will reached his office on Monday morning and found Jenna waiting anxiously with a message from Leona Lansing.

_If you’re free, come up_.

Once on the 44th floor, he was directed by a Lansing minion down the corridor to the executive conference room. “She has some people with her, but she wants you to join them.”

At the head of the conference table, Leona was in close conference with two men in dark suits. A sharply dressed young woman distributed comb-bound packages around the table and then returned to her seat to the right and slightly behind Rebecca Halliday, who shot Will an appraising look.

“Casual Monday?”

He looked down at his jeans and sweater. “No one told me to expect an imperial audience this morning, Rebecca. What’s this all about?”

She held up a hand. “We’re waiting for two or three others to join us. When they get here—oh, speak of the devil. Or, rather, _devils_.”

Sloan Sabbith and Reese Lansing entered the room together, both sighting Will and immediately heading for him.

“Reese.” Will acknowledged the other man with a handshake, a formality predicated upon having not seen or talked to him for the last six months. “I understood you were playing industrial magnate of the Midwest.”

Reese Lansing rolled his shoulders. “It’s important to have currency and familiarity in all aspects of AWM holdings. Jet engines are an important part of this company. But,” he leaned closer, conspiratorially, “I have a feeling exile may be over.”

Will turned. “Sloan.”

The McAvoys certainly saw her frequently enough—just the previous weekend, in fact. But now, at AWM, after all the unfortunate events of the summer—there was no way her presence here could be serendipitous.

He eyed her. “Are you going to tell me—“

“Everyone, please have a seat,” Leona interrupted. “I’ll go around the room. Most of you know my son, Reese, who has been overseeing some manufacturing issues for us recently. And I’m sure you recognize Will McAvoy of _News Night_. Dr. Sloan Sabbith—oh, there you are—also used to grace our bandwidth. She’s been on sabbatical in the private sector for the last few months, making a killing for Morgan Stanley in the shekel and ruble markets. Mark Harvey, Rob Snyder, and Carrie Sanders are associates with Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday. I think most of you have met my assistant Barbara Johnson. Richard Henke, Chief Financial Officer for Atlantis World Media. And Rebecca Halliday, also of Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday.” She paused. “Rebecca?”

At this, the attorney quietly took charge of the gathering.

“This meeting will address the re-acquisition of the cable broadcast entity known as Atlantis Cable News from Intuitive Media, Corp. Because the contents of this meeting are extremely sensitive and have the potential to affect market prices, those of you without standing in this matter and those of you who do not enjoy attorney-client privilege are asked to sign the non-disclosure agreement you see before you.”

Rebecca’s pause made it apparent she was waiting for this action before proceeding. When Will glanced around, Sloan had already signed hers and the faces around the table looked at him expectantly. He scribbled his name and set the document to the side, more intrigued than ever.

Rebecca opened the comb-bound presentation package in front of her, turning past introductory pages and tables of contents to the color chart. 

“Richard, can you bring us up to date?” 

The CFO cleared his throat and hunched over his pages. “At the time of the divestment in May last, AWM was rebounding from a brief period of financial uncertainty that contributed to illiquidity at a crucial hour. A stock buy-back was necessary to maintain autonomy and avert a hostile take-over, but the immediate need for cash resulted in having to put the cable news division on the block. Intuitive Media was at that time shopping for an outlet and thereby became our financial white knight.” 

He wilted under Leona’s withering glare, clear testament of her opinion comparing Pruit to anything chivalrous.

“A financial white knight is an entity that acts to thwart a hostile take-over,” Sloan offered in explanation. She didn’t want to hijack the CFO’s opening statement, but it seemed apparent that a few in the room, Will among them, might not be familiar with the term as it applied to corporate finances. “In a scenario with a white knight, management and practices typically are permitted to remain in place at the target company, and investors receive better compensation for their shares.”

“Stop with that phrase, white knight. It’s really making me crazy,” Leona barked. “Go on, Richard.”

Richard resumed. “We could have optioned real estate, or Atlantis Radio, National Theatricals or any of a dozen other assets, but timing and the sudden availability of a buyer made ACN the obvious choice to sell. The chart you see before you is a snapshot of quarter-end price-per-share in March, June, and September. You’ll note a small speculative uptick after the acquisition by Intuitive Media and then, a few months later, a slight decline, but on the whole a stable valuation. What I’m saying is that, financially-speaking, ACN remains a very desirable asset.”

Leona made a dismissive wave. “We all know that. It’s only important to say it aloud because we have a board and shareholders who expect that we act in their fiduciary interests. Not out of vengeance, not out of pride. This is wholly a business decision.”

“In the meantime,” the CFO continued, “we have identified and gradually pruned assets to amass sufficient capital for a re-acquisition bid, should that prove possible.”

Will knew he had been brought in merely as a spectator but he couldn’t help his expression of polite disbelief.

“What’s that, Will?” Leona asked from the head of the table.

“It’s not my place—but…” He couldn’t help himself. “Unless you’re planning your own hostile take-over of Pruit’s little empire, what would make him _want_ to sell, having just bought it? I mean, it’s been only six months—the letterhead stationery has hardly been updated. And even if he decided to sell it, wouldn’t he be inclined to ask an astronomical price, knowing that you wanted it so badly?”

“Rebecca, can you answer Will’s question?”

Rebecca ran her palm down the center of her presentation book, creasing the unruly pages into place.

“The documents transferring ACN from AWM to Intuitive Media contained what we call a shotgun exit clause, which requires the owner, in this case Pruit’s Intuitive Media, Corp., to offer first-refusal of any future sale to Atlantis World Media, and at a pre-approved price-per-share.”

“But he still has to _want_ to sell,” Will persisted. “I’m not talking out of school when I say that I’ve seen utterly nothing to make me think he wants to sell his stake in cable news. He was strutting like Bill Paley and David Sarnoff combined at the Upfront last week.”

Rebecca exchanged a glance with Leona and Reese before turning back to Will. “We believe we have found a compelling argument that will change Mr. Pruit’s mind and make him— _amenable_ —to an offer.”

“What? A horse’s head on his Serta mattress?”

Rebecca smiled, evidently relishing the image freshly conjured, but it was Reese who responded.

“Patent law. Actually, Sloan Sabbith had to remind me that many of the processes we employ at AWM are proprietary. Unique to us. And that they have capital value, apart from their end products. Also, we have intellectual property attorneys, like Mark here,” he nodded at one of the men across the table, “who help us apply for patent protection for our unique processes.”

Reese leaned back in his chair and rolled a pen in his fingers. “Ever hear of Lossy Compression?” At Will’s blank look, he pressed on. “Me, either. Sampat had to explain it all to me. Then I had to send him back here to New York to explain it all to Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday—“

“ _Not_ to Halliday,” Rebecca said under her breath as she closed her binder.

“ _Especially_ to Halliday. You spent three days deposing the kid. Anyway, Lossy Compression has to do with how multimedia data—audio and video—are compressed for transmission. Saves bandwidth, makes it more efficient. Essential to streaming technology. Turns out, one of AWM’s subsidiaries created a proprietary algorithm for data compression.”

“Pruit is infringing on a patent held by AWM?”

Reese leaned forward. “Yeah. Could it get any better?”

 

Also on Monday morning, a score of floors below the AWM conference room, MacKenzie realized she could no longer postpone the show-down, that she had to clear the air about the communiques, as she euphemistically termed them. But before she could extricate herself from the stack of phone messages and emails needing her immediate attention, Millie buzzed to announce Andrea Wells was waiting.

_Kismet_.

“MacKenzie.” Relief passed over Andrea Wells’ face as she strode in. “I know you’re busy, but Lucas is after me about the numbers for the packetized stream transport. He needs the analysis for the FCC’s new—“

“You brought your draft?”

Andrea passed over a legal pad, the top sheets filled with blocky print, scratched through in places, and the pages curling with repeated readings. Mac gave a cursory read then looked up.

“You know, Andrea, I hadn’t noticed until recently that you have a distinctive way of writing numerals. Rather European, actually. The slash through the 7 and the pronounced upswing on the 1.”

Andrea had just begun to register concern when Mac placed a green Uniball on the desk.

“I assume you did it for him.”

There was a long pause in which the other woman appeared to consider argument and denial. Finally, she met Mac’s eyes.

“How long have you known?” 

“The photograph. Catty little letters would come from a woman, but the picture was a man’s touch.”

Andrea looked nervous and guilty. “Are you firing me?” 

“Truthfully, I don’t think I can. I think you work directly for Lucas, so you’re protected—from me, anyway.” She tossed the pad back across the desk. “But under the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m too busy right now to help with your—project.”

Andrea retrieved the pad and beat a hasty retreat, pausing with her hand on the doorknob, but not actually daring to turn around. “I’m sorry.”

After she’d gone, Mac quietly added, “I am, too.”

 

Several days of eerie calm prevailed at ACN, owing largely to Lucas Pruit’s trip to Washington, D.C., to attend hearings held by the Federal Communications Commission. But while he schmoozed with government officials, he still found time to toss email thunderbolts back to New York.

_“Are Keefer and Hirsch angling for an award or the unemployment line?”_

He was obviously referring to _Right Now_ ’s continuing probe of bureaucratic arrogance and possible malfeasance at the government agency tasked with regulating interstate communications.

She emailed back. “This is investigatory journalism. The public has a right to know." 

_“I hope you haven’t put them up to this_ ,” his response seethed. _“There’s no fucking need to antagonize a regulatory agency on the eve of new compression standards. We’ll have to meet those standards, and the FCC controls and renews licenses. So, I’m telling you that there will be ramifications to anyone who may have greenlighted this investigation on my air.”_

Mac decided that, despite Pruit’s threat, or perhaps even because of it, she would wait until their usual meeting on Friday morning to revisit the matter with him. In the meantime, however, she felt obliged to call Don. 

"Your story on the FCC—I need you to take a few days off.” 

“Mac, you’re asking us to stop?” 

“I’m asking for a pause.” 

“Because of the hearings, right? Pruit is trying to polish apples with the FCC—“ 

“Regardless, Don, we’re going to freeze and hold the story where it is for a few days, until I can talk this through with him.” 

“A few days are all he needs,” Don grumbled. 

“Don—“ 

“Okay, okay.” 

As she put the phone back into the cradle, her eyes flicked to a new email from Pruit. With a weary sigh, she clicked on it. 

_“Send someone up to my office to man the phones. Fucking Andrea quit.”_

Thursday morning, Will guided Mac down the steps fronting the doctor’s office, temporarily masking his feelings under solicitous concern for the wet pavement. Their car was at the curb, but rather than open the door for her, he motioned for the driver to roll down the window. 

“Give us thirty minutes. We’re going to get a cup of coffee.” He inclined his head to indicate the diner on the corner. 

Mac thought better of remonstrating with him. She could remind him that he was missing the first run-down and that she had a phone conference scheduled with union reps, but all that seemed suddenly of lesser concern than his peace of mind. 

_Which he obviously no longer possessed._

It was between breakfast and lunch, so the diner was mostly empty, but Will went to the back anyway. Taking her coat, he settled her into the booth, and then ordered coffee for them both, decaf for her, hi-test for him. 

“Will,” she began. 

He slid forward on his elbows, arms parallel to the table. “ _Seizures_ , Kenz. A few minutes ago a doctor was talking to me about seizures. About _mortality rates_. About fucking surgery—“ 

The coffees arrived and the waitress produced a smart phone. 

“I’m a big fan, Mr. McAvoy, and I wondered if I—“ 

“Why don’t you let me take it of you both together?” Mac offered brightly, relieved for the interruption. She took several as Will tried to fake a smile for the camera. 

After the waitress departed, Will resumed. “ _Surgery_ , Mac—“ 

“A C-section,” she clarified, “not uncommon. And it is just a possibility, anyway. Just a way to defuse the situation if the symptoms escalate.” 

He dropped his head to stare into his untouched coffee. “I’m not taking this well.” 

She smiled sadly. “You’re taking it about as well as I thought you would.” 

“Nothing can happen to you.” 

“Nothing’s going to.” 

"You don’t know that, Kenz. _You don’t know that_.” He pushed back in his seat so violently that the coffee sloshed over the saucer and onto the table. “Ten minutes ago a doctor was telling me—“ 

“Worst case scenarios. All worst case scenarios.” 

“This job can’t be helping. God damn Pruit.“ 

“Doctor Stone said PE isn’t behaviorally affected.” She reached for his hand. “I’m being looked after very well, medically. And you take good care of me in every other way.” She hesitated. “But I think you have finally convinced me it’s time for me to up sticks. I can’t bail enough water to offset the new leaks created every day by my boss and his cohorts. I have been undermined at every juncture. Andrea Wells quit the other day—“ 

“Andrea quit? Why?” 

MacKenzie made a face. “I confronted her about the poison pen notes. She wrote them but Pruit put her up to it.” 

“Well. No surprise there.” Will ground his teeth, wishing Elliot hadn’t been around to restrain him the previous week at the Upfront. 

“But it confirms that he and I will never be able to work together. I am unwilling to deliver what it is he wants, and he will use any means to undercut me.” She looked profoundly unhappy. “Charlie deserved a better successor. He was able to work with Lucas, so he must be a reasonable man. I just haven’t been able to find the common ground. So—I’m planning to call Lucas this afternoon. He’ll probably do handsprings across the National Mall.” 

Mention of Pruit reignited Will’s anger. “He isn’t a reasonable man, and working with him virtually killed Charlie.“ Will leaned forward, adopting an unusually beseeching tone. “Mac, give it another day. Wait 24 hours.” 

“You think I’ll change my mind?” She tilted her head, mildly surprised. “Billy, I thought this was what you wanted, I thought you would applaud my resignation.” 

“Please. I can’t explain right now. Just one more day. Who knows what another day might bring?” 

Will returned to his office to find Jim waiting for him, probably about the fact that he had missed the first run-down meeting that morning. 

“Sorry—it couldn’t be helped. What’d I miss?” 

“I put it on your desk. A block is the Metro-North Commuter derailment in The Bronx. Four dead, 12 injured. You’ll have Joseph Lhota, chairman of the MTA.” 

Will nodded approval. 

“We’re still sorting B and C blocks. Mostly international. Rocket attack in Aleppo—suicide bombing in Baqubah—protests in the Ukraine. And, Will—“ 

“Hmmm?” 

Jim stopped fiddling with the stiff business card in his hand and flipped it to Will. 

“This guy. He called me Monday. Wanted to talk to me about my time with CNN. At first, I assumed it was some clumsy attempt to entice me to another network. But, er—it became obvious very quickly that I wasn’t who he was really after.” 

Will stiffened. “What do you mean?” 

“Is Mac thinking about leaving ACN? I mean, I know she’s had a shitty transition, the change in ownership and then everything with Charlie—and, of course, working that closely with Pruit _has_ to suck, big-time—“ 

Will stared at the business card. 

_Bram Flynn. Partnerships in Creativity._

“You think this guy is some headhunter?” 

“I don’t know what he is, exactly, except that talking to him began to make my spidey sense tingle—um, give me the creeps—“ 

“He asked about MacKenzie?” 

“He wanted to know about our time embedded. Afghanistan. Iraq. Pakistan. Really focused on what we were doing for CNN.” Jim paused because Will’s thinking suddenly seemed very loud. “Hey, you don’t think—“ 

Will grabbed his cell phone and hit familiar keys, #5. 

“It’s time to bring in the pros.” 

FCC hearings. 

De-bundling ACN and moving it to a premium cable tier. 

A slashed budget for international news-gathering and increasing reliance upon freelancers. 

_Andrea Wells._

Don and Elliot sitting in chairs outside Pruit’s office, waiting to make their case for the FCC expose. 

All these things were on MacKenzie’s agenda for her weekly Friday morning session with Pruit. 

But he fired the first round. 

“You took down the Murdoch day count. I told you I wanted it there and you took it down.” 

“It’s journalistic self-aggrandizement.” She dumped her armful of folders, spreadsheets, and folio on his desk, breaching the unspoken protocol that one never touched one’s boss’ desk. “We need to talk, Lucas. About Murdoch, about Andrea Wells—“ 

“No, I need to talk. What you need to do is listen, _Mc-Cubed_. This is commercial television, not some PBS polemic. You are so holy and ethical—patron saint of journalism. No time to court viewers, no stomach for shifting revenues, no interest in disruptive innovation. Extraordinary intrepidity, that’s what that guy said about you this week. Well, don’t send your friends to me to burnish your C.V.” 

Mac was confused by his last remark but sufficiently angered to ignore it and plunge in directly. 

“The only disruption that has been brought to ACN is the disruption you brought with you, Lucas. Your disruptive technologies—the over-reliance on crowd-sourcing, the elevation of the banal, the Tweetdecks and Storifys and Topsys—they aren’t a boon to a newsroom, they’re a bane. You’ve lowered our standards. Thrown away our professional integrity to shore up audience good will. Tried to raise your own profile by standing on the back of a journalist who’s been kidnapped and probably subjected to unspeakable experiences.” 

Pruit sat there coolly appraising her. Finally, he observed, “ _Emotional_ today, aren’t we?” 

Then, Providence, in a rare jesting moment, intervened with a knock at the office door. 

Tamara, who had been temporarily dispatched from the newsroom to perform some of the functions Andrea had previously performed, looked timidly around the door. “There are some people out here who want to see you—“ 

Pruit exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes. “You’d think someone around this fucking place—“ 

A man pushed into the room. “Lucas Pruit? Of Intuitive Media, Corp.?” He held out an envelope. 

“Give it to her,” Pruit said, indicating Mac. “She’ll take care of whatever it is.” 

“No, sir. I must deliver this to Lucas Pruit.” As Pruit accepted the papers, the man continued. “I am Federal Marshal John Fredericks and I am serving you with a preliminary injunction related to patent infringement, the—“ 

_“What the fu—“_

“—details of which are contained herein. You are hereby enjoined to immediately discontinue and halt all transmission, broadcast, or other data manipulation that infringes said patent. Do you have any questions regarding this service?” 

Pruit squinted at the document in his hand but made no attempt to open it. 

“Good morning, Lucas,” purred Leona Lansing, having crept in behind the federal marshal. Rebecca Halliday and Reese flanked her, and Tamara, Will McAvoy, Elliot Hirsch, and Don Keefer formed a back rank. 

For a brief moment, Pruit’s jaw worked without sound issuing forth. 

“Is this your best shot, Leona? You and your runt pup?” he sneered at Reese, who swaggered forward. 

“Intuitive Media’s time is up. You can fight us or we can all come to a mutually beneficial understanding.” 

“You want ACN Digital for yourselves." 

“You’re not understanding this, Lucas. There is no ACN Digital—this injunction shuts it down. What I want—“ Here Reese paused, smiled. “What I want right now is just to take away something you wanted. Just because I can.” 

“So ACN goes forward into the past?” 

“ACN goes forward, that much is true.” Reese crossed his arms. “But we’re willing to consider allowing you a restricted license to use our data compression method in exchange for returning ACN. You’ll just take your ones and zeroes and go.” 

Pruit trained hard eyes back upon MacKenzie. “You—somehow you—“ 

“I didn’t know about this—“ 

“Put me in, coach,” Don whispered to Will. “Mortal wounds only, no bruising." 

Will held up his hand, signaling to wait. 

“You’ve worked against me from the start—countered my directions, conspired with others in the newsroom, challenged all my decisions—“ 

“You know that isn’t—“ 

He was reversing everything, making himself the injured party. 

“—Guileful, treacherous, spiteful, lying—“ 

“That’s it.” Will pushed forward. 

_“—Stupid cunt—“_

Will slammed his fist into Pruit’s face. 

Mac and Rebecca were startled by the movement, but Reese brought his hand up to his mouth to conceal his grin. “A small blow for integrity, on behalf of your newsroom, Pruit.” 

Behind him, Elliot and Don exchanged wide-eyed glances. 

“He who troubles his own house, Lucas,” Leona said, unperturbed by Pruit staggering to lean back against his desk, his hand clasped ineffectually over his bloody nose. “Rebecca here will be handling the fine points of the transition. The only thing left to discuss now is when you can vacate your offices in my building. Say, close of business today?” She turned to go, pausing to nod at MacKenzie and add, over her shoulder to Reese, “Give that woman anything she wants.” 

Reese consulted his watch. “Isn’t it time for _someone_ around here to do the news?” 

“Let’s go commit journalism, people,” Don announced, leading Tamara and Elliot from the office. 

Even with a small army of lawyers, jettisoning Pruit and reversing seven months of journalistic atrophy took longer than the Lansings had made it sound. Rebecca’s best estimate was 45 days for actual control of ACN to be restored to the Lansings. Defacto interim control remained with Intuitive Media, although Pruit kept his surliness confined to snarky asides and generally ceded game, set, and match to Mac.

To MacKenzie, it seemed a Pyrrhic victory. 

She had championed integrity and ethics in a vicious confrontation with Lucas, but she was nagged by a slight feeling of disloyalty. She had to remind herself that Pruit had shown no loyalty whatsoever to her, or to ACN itself. She was particularly disturbed that Will had found it necessary to resort to violence to subdue Pruit’s vitriol. Lucas had briefly mewled about assault in the minutes afterward, but Rebecca had coldly dissuaded him. 

Three days after the confrontation, Millie shepherded Will and Lonny Church into MacKenzie’s office. After an effusive reunion between Mac and Lonny, Will got down to business.

“Mac, Jim came to me the other week and told me he’d been approached by someone asking a lot of questions about you. Specifically, about your time embedded with the troops in Afghanistan, Iraq, wherever. Nina Howard said much the same in that phone call last month, though I discounted it at first, thinking she was still singing the same old extortion song.” 

She looked puzzled. “Now that you mention it, Lucas made a curious remark, too—about someone burnishing my C.V., my _curriculum vitae_. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then, of course, the rest of the conversation turned to worms, so I never got to go back to it.” 

“Anyway, I asked Blue North to check this out, as a security concern. I knew you were under the gun with our illustrious owner and suspected this might be another battery of dirty tricks. Lonny?” 

“This guy, Bram Flynn—“ Church passed the well-routed business card to her, “—met with me this morning. Very upfront. Made no attempt to hide his inquiries. Very focused on your time overseas. He seemed real contrite for having caused alarm in contacting other people. He wants to meet with you directly whenever it can be arranged.” 

“But what’s it about?” 

“Flynn is in development—" 

“Real estate?” 

Will grinned. “No. Television. Evidently, he’s doing research before pitching a TV show. Your exploits, a la _Homeland_." 

“Me? That’s ridiculous.” She looked back to Lonny. “Is this for real? You sent him packing, I hope?” 

Church shrugged. “Mac, I think you need to meet with him. He didn’t want to talk numbers with me, obviously, but he kept saying there was a generous consultancy fee. No official involvement. Your name won’t be used unless you want it to be and, obviously, things will be heavily fictionalized.” 

“No amount of money—" 

“Mac.” Will leaned forward. “I agree with Lonny. Meet with the man. Hear him out. You can always earmark the money for the Committee to Protect Journalists or Wounded Warriors.” 

The Christmas holidays proved a typically slow news cycle, allowing down time for _News Night_ and the other broadcasts. Even MacKenzie found herself a bit under-employed that week, as many of the fiscal and other decisions were being deferred until the corporate realignment. Moreover, Lucas had made himself deliberately unavailable to her, seemingly part of his strategy to obfuscate and retard the transfer process. Mac found herself grateful to not have to deal with him directly, even as she hated the open-endedness and inability to finally resolve matters.

One of the matters requiring resolution of some sort was ACN Digital. Lacking clear and overt guidance from Lucas about the boundaries, Mac decided to simply put Digital on hiatus pending direction. Bree and his cohorts would enjoy a five week paid holiday, and there would be one fewer thorn in her side during the transition. When propriety afforded discussion with Leona or Reese, she intended to inquire about poaching Neal back from AWM’s aircraft engine subsidiary. 

It seemed important, very important, to mark the end of a very trying period, so when Tess and Jenna broached the topic of an office New Year’s celebration, a less glamorous and decidedly more plebian version of the one Leona would doubtless host on the 45th floor, Mac gave immediate assent. To her, the party carried a secondary meaning, that of a temporary farewell as she commenced the pre-natal maternity leave that she and Will had agreed upon months earlier. Maggie, visiting New York for New Year’s Eve, and Sloan joined the festivities as well, making the night a welcome reunion and truly an _Auld Lang Syne_ moment. 

In the middle of celebratory noise, Kendra held up a phone. “Mac, there’s a call for you.” 

“Thanks, I’ll take it in in Will’s office.” 

“This is MacKenzie McHale. You’re on speaker phone with me and Will McAvoy.” 

“Mr. McAvoy, Ms. McHale—we haven’t met properly, but my name is David Bradley and I’m—“ 

“—Publisher of _The Atlantic_.” 

They could detect his amused huff. “Yes. The very same. Anyway, I wanted to reach out to you, as I know this has been a conflicted period for Atlantis Media and there’s been some recent confusion about whether young Pruit or Leona Lansing—“ 

“It will be the Lansings. There are legal and financial matters to be ironed out, but ACN is returning to AWM.” 

“Ah.” He didn’t express further opinion. “I wanted to relay to you, and I trust you will pass this on to Mrs. Lansing, that I have troubling news about your man Murdoch.” 

Will’s and Mac’s eyes locked. 

“Today, U.S Special Forces raided the Jihadist camp in Syria where ACN journalist Andrew Murdoch and three others were believed held. Nine Jihadists were killed and two Americans.” He sighed heavily. “There were no captives. Murdoch and the others had been moved before the raid. This was the final option, in a manner of speaking. The military wouldn’t insert troops into harm’s way in a raid such as this unless they had compelling evidence that Murdoch and the others were there and in imminent peril.” 

Will recovered first. “What happens now?” 

Bradley gave a thoughtful pause before speaking. “We haven’t exhausted all non-official means yet. We’re still talking with the Jordanian government. They believed they had a line on him, that they might be able to extract him with money and the release of a certain high value prisoner—“ 

“The deal fell through?” 

“It was rendered OBE by the raid.” 

“Order of the British Empire?” 

“ _Overcome By Events_. That’s the calculated risk of such an operation—“ his voice trailed off. 

Will kept his eyes on MacKenzie, watched as the arm that held the phone began to slowly dip. 

“Thank you for advising us, Mr. Bradley. And thank you for all you tried to do,” Will said. 

“It seems pitifully little right now. Please convey to Mrs. Lansing and your entire team my deepest regret that this turned to a blind lead. We all hope for brighter news in the new year.” 

Two steps outside Will’s office, Mac began to sink. 

Will rushed to support her. Thinking of her fragility and their child _in utero_ , he moved his hand over her face. “Don’t you go anywhere, Kenz. Stay right here with me.” He cast a panicked look to Sloan, who remembered the collapse of another news president barely six months prior. 

Sloan called out, “Call 9-1-1.” 

“On it,” Gary and Tess answered in unison, each independently determining that urgency trumped redundancy. 

Mac’s eyes blinked open at the exchange. “Don’t want—spoil the party—“ 

“We’re going to check this out, Kenz. We’re going to be careful.” Will spoke softly but firmly. He tossed his cell phone to Jim. “Dr. Stone.” 

“Roger that.” 

By the time EMTs arrived, Jim had contacted the doctor, who agreed with the precautions and promised to meet them at the hospital.

The lead EMT, self-identified as Bill (which Mac was inclined to think was a good omen), affixed the blood pressure cuff. “Not that bad. Still in the range.” After completing the measurement, he looped the stethoscope around his neck and waved over the stretcher. “I know you’re not going to like this, but it’s protocol and we’re going to give you a ride downstairs.” He looked at Will. “You called your OB? I think it’s about time little momma here had this baby.” 

“Doctor’s meeting us there.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

MacKenzie looked pale but still visibly annoyed at having to ride the gurney. Will, palpably worried, nonetheless found time to look over his shoulder to Jim. 

“Find Leona and tell her I’ll call her from the hospital.” He made a weak smile. “Oh, and, uh—happy new year.” 

Will not only called Leona an hour later, as he waited, but called Jim as well, feeling obliged to pass on the information from David Bradley’s call about Murdoch. That news, grim as it was, paled slightly alongside the urgency of MacKenzie being hurried off in an ambulance. News division presidents departing by ambulance was still a deep emotional sore spot. Fortunately, he was able to offset the impact somewhat with an optimistic update on Mac. 

“Dr. Stone doesn’t want me to worry, but they’ve started something to induce labor and something else called a magnesium sulfate drip to guard against problems…” Running a hand through his hair, he saw Sloan arrive. “Sloan’s here. And Don.” 

“I think most of us will be there in a little while,” Jim said. “Maggie and I are just nailing down loose ends here, crafting some copy about Murdoch to use when the Pentagon gives us confirmation. Dayside will probably get to break it.” 

“Mac’s going to hate that she shut down the party.” 

“Like—doesn’t she have anything else to worry about right now?” 

In the early hours of the morning, as confetti blew through the emptying avenues surrounding Times Square, the waiting room of St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital filled with ACN well-wishers, having moved their new year’s celebration to a new setting. Sloan monopolized the television with Bloomberg tickers. Maggie, Jim, and Gary played Old Maid with a pinochle deck, since none of them knew how to play pinochle, and Jenna, who had actually had a real date on New Year’s Eve, joined them late with two flat boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts she had gingerly maneuvered through fifteen blocks of jostling crowds. 

Will kept appearing at intervals with updates and occasional bursts of pure blather. He had rarely seemed so garrulous, a symptom of either his anxiety or his fatigue. By the time Leona Lansing arrived, nigh onto 4am and fresh from her own party, Will had been spirited back to Maternity. 

It was another two hours before Mac, visibly exhausted, nonetheless smiled and reached out a hand. “Billy. Come meet your daughter.” 


End file.
